


Perfectly Baited

by Saesama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M, Jane is HIC's pet, crockertier!Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and he both know that you're the perfect bait to catch him. You hope he doesn't know that he might be yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfectly Baited

You perch on your stool, sipping a violently green drink and your gaze is steady across the club. Your target had spotted you the moment he walked in, blank shades curving around to stare at you for a long moment; this is his territory and you are an unwelcome intruder. You had saluted him with your glass and you follow him with your eyes - not hidden like his - as you have the entire night. Every time he looks at you, or you think he looks at you, you give him a simple, sweet smile.

Finally, he deigns to saunter over and lean on the stool beside yours. "Jane Crocker, he nearly purrs, and the venom in his voice burns deep. "What's a young thing like you doing in a club like this?"

You smile up at him and shift your crossed ankles. Your skirt, proper and demure, reveals a slit to the hip and a glimpse of thigh, and you happen to know that, between the club lights and his angle, your polite blouse is bordering on transparent. "I don't know, Mr. Strider," you say, rolling your shoulders. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

It's tough, staying on the tightrope between innocence and seduction, but you've been given practice. Men far smarter than Dave Strider have fallen to your wiles, each broken on promises and implications without a hint of reward, each a practice mission for this night alone. But he's cunning and canny and he recognized you as a foe right off and he's very, very handsome and your heart picks up a little.

Dave snorts, but you can see the gleam of light on his shades as he looks you over. "Lookin' to get arrested, most like," he answers, his voice low and drawled and heated and he hates you, he hates everything you stand for but you've been molded into his perfect bait and both of you know it.

You laugh into your hand, light and soft and girlish. "You and I both know," you point out. "There's not a police man on earth who would arrest me."

Even if you are underaged, sitting in a nightclub and chatting up an attractive man twenty years your senior. The bartender recognized you on sight and didn't question you once. This may be Dave Strider's territory, but no one ignores or kicks out the Empress' favorite emissary.

He shrugs and leans in a little, eyebrows raised over the rim of his aviators. "Enlighten me, then?" he drawls. "What brings the Princess here?"

You sip your drink and give him a coy look. "Just looking for someone to teach me how to dance," you giggle.

He stares at you and you can practically see the gears turn in his head. He knows you're here for him. He knows that you're dangerous. But he also knows that the absolute best way to infuriate the Empress would be to turn this around on you, to seduce you instead and win this game and he's been at this so much longer than you, immersed in Hollywood hedonism for longer than you've been alive.

You know that he'll take insane risks, that so much of what he does is simply for the challenge of it.

He smirks at you, devilish and terrifying, and takes your hand.

The music shifts, something lush and heavy like a heartbeat or a porno soundtrack. Your clumsy movements are a ruse, to give him an excuse to touch you and you an excuse to be touched. His hands are on your hips and his breath is hot over the back of your neck and you're in danger of losing yourself in him, of letting him win, and the idea has dangerous appeal.

When you're in his penthouse, when his mouth is hard over yours and his hand is climbing your leg and your hips are rocking against each other, you begin to shake.

When he pulls back to look at you, you begin to cry, quiet sobs into your palms. 

You tell him the truth; that you're a trap, that She wants you to seduce him and kill him and rid Her of him for good. You tell him about her plans, her inventions, her sick mind control devices. You tell him about growing up in fear, about your grandfather's death and your father's protection and how neither one was enough to stop Her from making you Her weapon. You tell him how much he infuriates Her, how much She hates him, how much damage he does to Her plans.

At first, he stares. Then he places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Then he draws you close and you shudder while you pour out the truth into his chest and you cry until your eyes hurt. You both talk, for hours, until long after the buzz of your drink is gone. 

You tell him about the people She's corrupted, about the men and women in her pocket and those she's killed.

He tells you about others who are fighting Her, about safe places and repositories of knowledge and technology that she hasn't corrupted. No names, no specifics, but enough detail for the general idea, enough for hope. 

Dawn peeks in between the curtains when he finally falls asleep. You rest your head on his chest, both of you still mostly dressed, and listen to his breathing even out and his heartbeat slow. It's a calm, intimate moment, likely the last you'll ever have, and you desperately wish that he'd listened to the first thing you told him.

_**OBEY** _

When you hand the Empress his sunglasses, one lens smudged by a thumbprint the color of his eyes, you console yourself that at least your tears were genuine.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I think this is my OTP 8|


End file.
